


Descent into Darkness

by Winterwolke



Series: Broken Wings 'Verse [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Original Character(s), Torture, Veela Draco Malfoy, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:15:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22622371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterwolke/pseuds/Winterwolke
Summary: Draco Malfoy’s mind was a fortress. Had been, Voldemort corrected himself, since the walls he’d built around it had gaping wide holes in them, the sparse rest only kept together by sheer stubbornness. It had taken a month to get this far. Only a few small steps remained, and then everything would be beautifully laid bare before Voldemort’s eyes.
Series: Broken Wings 'Verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1588873
Kudos: 25





	Descent into Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to part 2 of the "Broken Wings 'Verse". If I never mentioned it before, the series' title comes from the song "Broken Wings" by Mr. Mister. It's a song that always comes to me whenever I feel down, but never of my own choosing. As it happens I just turn on the radio and there it is. Or I watch TV and, well, there it is. It magically appears whenever I need it and I heard it quite often when I wrote the "30 Days...".
> 
> You should read "30 Days in the Lives of... Harry and Draco" because it's a good read (if I may say so), but also because it gives a good foundation for this one. This work can stand alone, but there are references to the previous work that you will not get unless you read it.
> 
> Now, on to trigger warnings (also mini spoiler alert): I tagged graphic violence and there will be a bit of it. What I didn't tag, because it is only mentioned, I think, three times, and only in so many words, is this. Imagine someone is a prisoner in a war and all bets are off. The enemy is encouraged to let their frustration out on them in every way they can imagine. Everything can happen and probably happens. I didn't describe any of it (except, of course, for the violence and torture), but it is mentioned that Voldemort doesn't care what his Death Eaters do. The story includes the almost exact same phrase in two or three different sentences. What your fantasy makes out of it is your responsibility. I just felt it is my duty to warn you in case that is enough to trigger you.
> 
> Special thanks go out to my beta reader [Drarrymadhatter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drarrymadhatter). Thank you for your valued input and the ensuing discussions. :)

Voldemort smiled, a rare, genuine smile, as he walked the halls of Malfoy Manor. The night had been successful, obtaining the trust of another pack of hungry werewolves. Those creatures were filthy and simple-minded, but they made for excellent cannon fodder and terrified opponents. People were doing almost everything to avoid being bitten - Dublin had folded under the mere threat of releasing a few packs all over Ireland. People were so easy to play and so eager to make way for a real leader.

The old oak door to the dungeons rattled when it opened at the wave of his hand. In contrast to the rich tapestry and the insurmountable number of paintings of the upper floors, the dungeons were bleak and listless. A suitable place for what he had in mind. Still, he had an eye for beauty, although there wasn't much use for it, especially in the late parts of his plans.

Even before he entered the cell, Voldemort could hear the muffled sounds of flesh hitting flesh and groaned agony. Inside, Narcissa was crying softly while Rowle pounded into the boy, his knuckles bloody and abrased. The boy's face was barely recognisable, the body broken in many different ways.  
He didn't care what his Death Eaters did to him as long as they left his mind alone. That was his to break and his alone.

“Enough, Rowle, give young Draco a break,” he drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm. He had little time for insubordination and didn't care for those who needed punishment for their failures.  
Rowle delivered a vicious last kick before he spat on the unmoving body, giving Voldemort a respectful nod before he sauntered out of the room.  
Feeling merciful so near to his success, Voldemort allowed Narcissa to cast a few healing charms.

Draco had been the last one in a string of very disappointing followers. Not only had the boy not fulfilled his task to kill Dumbledore, but he hadn’t been able to simply identify Harry Potter when he had been brought to the Manor. The Malfoys, his best and most trusted servants of the past, had made an absolute joke out of him, and while Voldemort still caused deadly terror in his followers, he could hear them laugh about him whenever they deemed themselves unobserved. They foolishly believed that there actually were moments when he didn't know everything they did. Right now Lucius and Severus, for example, were talking in hushed voices, each of them begging for new punishment at the hand of their lord from what they were saying.

The boy’s punishment had been an example for every other Death Eater, but the message hadn’t got through to some of them, a state of affairs he would rectify as soon as he was done here. Voldemort felt that it was today that the boy would crack, and he looked forward to it. With Harry Potter still at large, there were few pleasures these days he could indulge in - using dark curses on creatures who couldn't defend themselves was only so much fun.

He watched, still somewhat patient but itching to finally start, as the boy’s body knitted together and bones realigned. His Death Eaters were uncouth at best, most of them enjoyed violence and were eager to get their wands or fingers on flesh to mark and break. 

Giving the boy to them in any way they wanted had been an enormous boost to their fading morale. The smarter ones were caught up with their strenuous tasks at the Ministry, and the simpler minds didn’t enjoy being out there, looking for fled Muggleborns or blood-traitors. Now they had something to come home to, so to speak, some form of amusement. 

Most of his followers didn’t have the taste for a more subtle form of torture. The mind was so much more resilient than the body, but it was even more beautiful when it finally broke. Voldemort had seen mighty wizards and witches reduced to gibbering messes, unable to fulfill the simplest tasks, without a single finger laid on them. Although, admittedly, there were only few people strong enough to withstand an onslaught of Legilimency. Fewer even posed a challenge. 

Draco Malfoy’s mind was a fortress. _Had been_ , Voldemort corrected himself, since the walls he’d built around it had gaping wide holes in them, the sparse rest only kept together by sheer stubbornness. It had taken a month to get this far. Only a few small steps remained, and then everything would be beautifully laid bare before Voldemort’s eyes.

Interestingly enough, the boy hadn’t shut his mind down when he’d been tortured into his catatonic state, but fled into some kind of dream world. He’d seen glimpses so far, but he hadn’t liked them one bit. Harry Potter had been there, more often than the Dark Lord cared for, and he was sure to mention it as soon as the boy was lucid again... If he would be able to understand anything after Voldemort was done with him.

After most of the visible injuries had been healed, he raised just one finger, the simple gesture immediately stopping Narcissa; sending her away. She resumed her position on the small stool in the back, murmuring how grateful she was for his mercy, allowing her to heal the boy.

It was her own punishment, having to sit here day in and day out, watching over her son while he was violated in every imaginable way. He knew about the sentiments of mothers enough to realise that he couldn’t have chosen a better torture than for her to quietly endure. She whimpered when he cut her a sharp look, but kept quiet, knowing he wouldn’t be deterred by her pleas.

With a short wave of his hand he conjured a chair from his favourite sitting room and sat down in front of the bound boy. He looked truly pathetic, his robes in tatters, hair matted in blood, filth everywhere.

Voldemort crossed his legs, resting his calf on one knee and steepled his fingers together, a posture of easy comfort. Breaking into any mind was but a child’s play for him, even if it took some time to get through the barriers. It was almost as easy as reading a book. The boy's mind had presented enough of a challenge for the time being, but it was time to move on.

When he entered the frayed barricades of Draco Malfoy’s mind, he immediately was assaulted by the foolish dreams that played out before him. He saw the boy, sitting on a sofa, eyes closed but not yet asleep. While he couldn’t make out any words, it was easy to pick up on the mood. There was guilt there, and shame, but not about fraternising with Potter, like Voldemort expected. No, quite the contrary: young Draco was ashamed of the things he had done in the name of his lord, asking himself over and over again how he could forgive himself. 

A sudden burst of rage shattered the scene as well as the scarce remnants of defence. 

Every Malfoy was a traitor, given enough time, and Voldemort had had enough of that. How dare they defy him? All of them were vermin, not even good enough to be in the same room as him, and there would no more mercy, no more lenience. He would destroy the boy, body and mind, and his parents would watch. And when he was nothing more than a wet stain on the floor, he would deal with Narcissa. And then Lucius. And maybe his never-ending rage would have simmered down by the time he had a nice little talk with Bellatrix so he would allow her to live for a few more days. She was another of those disappointing, but very replaceable followers. They all were, but they had those false fantasies that they weren't.

Focussing on his current task, Voldemort took in the ruins around him. It was remarkable what a seventeen year old wizard had been capable of doing with only a few months of training. Pity this brilliant mind belonged to a Malfoy, and not only a traitorous one, but the biggest coward he’d ever encountered.

The edges of his mind were frayed, worn down by his unrelenting onslaught. Voldemort could see and feel the madness lurking in the advancing shadows, a destiny that would soon befall the boy if he lived long enough.

He was just about to saunter through the shards of thoughts, eager to turn every good memory in a nightmare worse than the ones that were already plaguing the boy, when he was suddenly thrown out of the boy’s head, back into the dungeon.  
For one barely perceptible second Voldemort felt fearful before his common sense won out again. Nobody and nothing could hurt him here.  
Voldemort got to his feet, slowly rounding in on the bound boy.

He didn’t like surprises. Secrecy was something he despised; it over-complicated things and took time from more important things. Also, people could never keep their secrets around him, since their minds were open books and easy to read. Not even accomplished Occlumens like Bellatrix could keep secrets to themselves. The boy certainly hadn’t. Still, the surprise he got now, well that was worth it. 

Before him, still bound by sturdy chains, magically inforced and tested over centuries, was Draco Malfoy - sprouting wings. They were white and fluffy, reflecting the dim torchlight, the only source of light in the cell. Voldemort grinned as he thought about how beautiful they would look drenched in blood. He intended to find out.

The boy opened his eyes, his pupils dilated with agony, and Voldemort could only venture a guess how much in pain he had to be. Watching the boy struggle to breath through the unimaginable pain all the while the wings fluttered helplessly around him, he got a bit carried away. He smiled.

“Welcome back, Little Dragon.”

He purposely used the boy’s pet name. Behind them, Narcissa wailed like a banshee, high-pitched sobs that grated on Voldemort’s nerves. He turned and, with an angry shake of his hand, silenced her. She looked at him with wide eyes, not even trying to hide her terror. She was slipping, which meant that his punishment was coming to fruition. It also meant she was beginning to get useless to his cause. He couldn’t deal with frightened mothers and weak women.

“Go get Lucius, Severus, and Bellatrix,” he told her, pleased to see that she immediately complied. If she would have started to argue with him, he would have lost what little patience he had with her.

Now that they were alone, Voldemort finally had the time to take in the sight before him. He could easily see the creature that had awoken in the boy the second his mental shields had been shredded to dust. There was no doubt he had inherited traits of a Veela, which was interesting enough. All pureblood families had mixed blood, but the creatures didn’t manifest several generations down the line, when their blood was watered down enough. For the boy to show such blatant signs of a Veela, it had either to be a recent ancestor or a very powerful creature. Too bad it wasn’t useful for his cause in the slightest.

Voldemort stepped closer, raising his hand to run it through the wings. The boy’s head snapped up, a foreign glint in his eyes. It wasn’t him anymore but the Veela taking over. It didn’t have the other features, the beak and the scales and the claws, but it looked imposing enough, fixing him with its golden irises, pupils slightly elliptic. Such a waste, really.

After nearly catching Harry Potter, thwarted by the incompetence of the Malfoy family, he had needed something to take his mind off. That was done now, and after today he would turn to the more pressing issues. He resumed his previous position in the chair, waiting for his audience and watching the creature writhe in its chains.

It didn’t take long, and one after another, first Lucius, then Bellatrix and Narcissa stepped inside the cell, followed mere moments by Severus, who wore a neutral expression, contrary to the obvious fear in the other three faces. They had all reasons to be fearful, they just didn’t know yet.

“So nice of you to join us,” Voldemort drawled, twirling his wand in his hand, an obvious threat. Immediately everyone bowed, too afraid to do something wrong.

“You wanted to see us, My Lord?”

“Yes. Lucius.” Malfoy raised his head slightly, but didn’t make eye contact, already too demoralised by his previous punishments. “Tell me what you see here.”

Lucius looked away from him, taking in the creature that replaced his son momentarily. He flinched, the horror for one second plain in his face, before he smoothed it back into a neutral mask. It was one trait Voldemort admired the Malfoys for. They could take any situation and face them point blank, not letting their feelings show.

“It’s a Veela, My Lord. The Malfoy line hasn’t had a Veela in almost three hundred years, I-I can promise you that. I really don’t know how Draco could manifest as one…” He trailed off, obviously not knowing how to proceed here. 

Silence descended upon them, the fear thick like quicksand. Voldemort savored the atmosphere, the terror he could create with a simple gesture, a look or word. Even the creature seemed momentarily too stunned to make any noise. The rattling of the door as it opened was unexpected and disturbed the scenery all the more. Everyone watched as Dorus Lestrange slipped into the cell, his face an eager, yet cruel mask. He deflated slightly when he saw the audience that awaited him, but made no move to leave. Instead he settled against the wall near Voldemort. He didn’t show any signs of fear.

Dorus was probably the Dark Lord’s favourite, if he had to choose. The boy was the spitting image of Bellatrix and he clearly had inherited all the right characteristics of the Blacks and Lestranges, although Bella once admitted that she wasn’t sure whose child he really was. It wasn’t a question that was ever raised in Rodolphus’ presence, nor was it necessary.

Of all the younger Death Eaters, Dorus was the most promising, putting his Durmstrang education to good use. He was fascinated with the Dark Arts and loved it when he was allowed to try out new spells. He’d mastered the Cruciatus Curse at the tender age of fourteen, much to the glee of his fellow Death Eaters and the chagrin of the Malfoys. So different, these two boys.

“Dorus,” Bellatrix finally spoke up, “I think you should go. Now is not the time to play with your cousin.”  
She said it like her son was here to play catch or some other game. The boy’s grin immediately faltered, but deepened again when Voldemort decided to step in. 

“No, let him stay. Step forward, Dorus, and tell us what you see.”

Narcissa whimpered in the background as the boy complied eagerly, almost touching the creature that had started to struggle against the chains again. It snapped at him in feral fury, but he wasn’t deterred by it.

“It’s a creature, my Lord, but I don’t know what kind. Is that Cousin Draco?”

“That, boy, is a Veela. They are powerful creatures with strong magical abilities. In times gone by they kept to themselves, hidden from humans. Soon they realised they couldn’t survive on their own, so they put on enticing faces and began to seduce the humans around them. The Veelas deceived them, veiling their true nature, sometimes for generations. Of course they couldn’t hide forever, but the damage was done by the time wizards discovered how deep the pollution of their blood ran. They stopped procreating with everyone who was suspected to have creature blood and even killed those who showed the smallest signs of impurity. With time the foul blood watered down enough so that no creatures emerged further. Except for sometimes, like you can see just now. Look at your cousin, a so-called pure blood.”

Voldemort watched as the boy stepped closer. The Veela strained in its shackles, screeching in warning, but it was impotent, bound as it was. Its wings flapped as it twisted around, looking for a way to break free. 

Dorus shook off his obvious fascination, a calloused smirk on his face as he reached out and buried his hand in the white wing. For a second it looked like he carrassed it, stroking up and down, while the creature hissed in anger at the unwanted touch. Suddenly the noise broke off, replaced by an inhuman moan. Dorus yanked at something, his hand pulling away with three feathers, pristine and snow-white. He let them fall to the bare floor before diving in again, plucking out more and more feathers until the wing showed a bald patch.

“That’s enough!”

The boy obeyed immediately, stepping back to find his place at Voldemort's side again. Feathers littered the floor like the softest carpet. The Veela shook in pain, hissing and spitting. Maybe it was conscious of its helplessness, maybe it was just the instinct of a dumb animal. 

The rest of their present company was still silent, although Narcissa had looked away. Mothers and their weaknesses, Voldemort mused, pleased with her reaction. Lucius and Severus stood at her side, flanking her, both their faces stoic but paler than before. Bellatrix was the only one who mirrored the eager expression of her son. 

She’d always been someone who saw an opportunity and knew when to jump at a chance. Maybe he would spare her from punishment for tonight. There was always tomorrow.

Voldemort waved his wand, conjuring a wicked looking knife that seemed solely made of sharp, ragged teeth. The blade shimmered like polished obsidian in the flickering torch light in contrast to the handle, which was made of ivory. He looked at the marvellous handiwork before finally fixing Lucius with a hard stare. 

Malfoy's mouth tightened, his only outward sign of the fear that sent his pulse running, but he didn't dare turning away from his master's glare.

"You said there were no creatures in your blood line in ages, Lucius, and I believe you. Nevertheless, as you can see, there is a filthy Veela inhabiting your son. Tell me, what are you going to do to rectify this?" Voldemort paused, feasting on the spike of horror that couldn't be concealed any longer.

"M-my L-lord, I, uh, I don't know." Lucius trailed off, ending his undignified stammering, so untypical for a man of his breeding. Pathetic! Disgusting!

"It's good, then, that I am here to give you guidance, wouldn't you say?" Voldemort's voice was soft, almost gentle, belying his true nature. It was the only trait of his former self he still liked and knew to use to his advantage. Tom Riddle hadn't been anyone coming close to the superior being that was Lord Voldemort, but he was charismatic and could easily convince someone to follow his line of thought. 

Lucius agreed willingly, not knowing what was to come.  
"Of course, my Lord."  
His head bobbed up and down at his words, and he looked like one of those useless peacocks that roamed the gardens. Beautiful to look at, utterly useless in everything else.

"And I will not disappoint you. Take the knife!"  
Lucius scrambled to obey, although he looked utterly lost as to why he should, except following an order.

Voldemort's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Since the creature stems from tainted blood, we won't be able to kill it without killing young Draco as well." Narcissa choked on a wail, not able to hold back her sobs any longer. It was annoying, but tolerable, at least for the moment. Voldemort relished in the power he had over those people.

"But there is a simple way to disable that vile thing so that it may never surface again: cut off its wings. It will force the Veela back down forever."

The reaction around him was instantaneous: Narcissa let out a piercing cry, her body wrecked by tremors as she begged for mercy. With a simple gesture of his hand the words died in her throat, the spell rendering her mute.  
Lucius paled, but said nothing, while Bellatrix gushed words of praise and gratitude. Only Severus and Dorus remained stoic, although Severus was as pale as Voldemort had ever seen him before. 

"Is there something the matter, Severus?" 

The man shook his head. "No, my Lord, I am merely disgusted by the display in front of me." He spat on the floor for emphasis, only barely missing one of the feathers.

"That is good, admirable even. I know Draco is your godson and how much it must bother you to see him so… impaired." Voldemort's malicious grin got even wider. "I want you to take the knife from Lucius, and then I want you to cut one of the creature's wings off."

He watched as Severus stepped forward, his shoulders tense and his face drawn into a frown, no matter how much he tried to suppress it. It couldn’t be easy being taken to task like that, but Voldemort couldn’t care less. He didn’t feel any affiliation with anybody other than himself. Feelings were a liability he couldn’t allow to get in the way. And everyone of his followers better knew that or he would teach them a valuable lesson, just like he was about to do now. He eyed Severus critically. He was hiding something from his master, although Voldemort wasn’t sure what exactly it was. Ever since he had killed Dumbledore, Snape was even more closed off.

A trembling hand caressed the creature’s wings. It was throwing a fit again, but seemed to calm down considerably as Severus continued to stroke its feathers. It was an unnecessary display of affection towards a creature that didn’t deserve any of it, but Voldemort understood the effect it had on the thing. It would only be more hurt by the betrayal it was about to receive from a seemingly unexpected ally.

The first strike was totally unexpected and was only announced by a piercing screech. It resonated through the cell, rendering them all deaf for a second or two. Severus had plunged the knife in the creatures shoulder from behind, unseen by his audience. As the creature writhed and struggled and shook, he pulled the knife free. Blood began spurting at the wall behind the Veela, running in thick rivulets along the stone walls to pool on the ground. 

A quick strike brought the knife right back into the juncture between shoulder and wing. Severus tried to make a clean cut, but the ragged teeth prevented that. Voldemort smiled. He had specifically designed the blade like that when he conjured it. Otherwise it would’ve been just too easy. 

Snape seemed to realise it the same time that the creature broke free. It pushed him back and knocked him to the floor, snapping its wings in a show of dominance - well, it tried. Its left wing was already too damaged to function properly. Instead, more blood shot out of the jagged wound, clinging to the white feathers. It almost tripped over the chains that still clung to its feet, not aware enough to understand that they were still bound. It tried to move forward, flapping its wing frantically, actually snapping at the bystanders. 

Lucius, Narcissa and Bellatrix were frozen in place, too intimidated or simply too inept to handle the situation properly. It didn’t surprise the Dark Lord.

The commotion went on for another minute, when finally Dorus raised his wand, and, with a sharp snap of his hand, put the creature to its knees.

“Crucio!”

It tried to screech for a splitting second, before it fell to the floor like a puppet with cut strings, tossing around aimlessly, the fight effectively tortured out of it. 

“Now, Severus!” Voldemort demanded, pleased to see that his servant didn’t hesitate this time. He summoned the knife wandlessly, then threw himself onto the creature’s back, bringing the blade down on the wing again and again, ripping and slashing. His hands were stained crimson, his robes soaked with it, but he kept working, easily breaking the hollow bones. At the first dry crack, Narcissa fainted, crashing right down into a pool of blood at her feet.

The creature’s mouth worked, but it couldn't make a sound, still caught in the Cruciatus Curse that Dorus kept unwaveringly on it. The sick sounds of tearing flash and ripping sinews filled the cell, painting even Bellatrix’ face white as a sheet, even though she was used to such blatant shows of violence. Voldemort was pleased to see that at least one of his Death Eaters began to realise that nobody was irreplaceable, and that he certainly didn’t care who suffered at his command.

When the last bone was broken and rest of the wing was practically torn away instead of cut off, the creature screamed again, inhuman and full of pain and sorrow. Through all of his task Severus had remained calm and unrelenting, but as he stepped back, holding the ruined remains of a wing, fingers slick with blood, Voldemort could see the faint tremors in his hands, the slight shaking of his body. Snape looked at the wing with disgust and threw it down on the floor, next to the writhing creature.

“Enough, Dorus.”

The boy complied easily, his eyes fixed on the carnage in front of him. He looked so eager, so aroused - he would make such a great Death Eater once he was allowed to join their ranks fully. He was definitely someone Voldemort planned to keep an eye on.

“Severus, hand the knife over to Lucius! He should take part in rectifying his mistake, don’t you think?”

Snape nodded, turning back to the small group of onlookers. He snarled at Malfoy before thrusting the knife into Lucius fumbling hands. His boot squelched with the excess of blood on the floor. He looked at his dirty hands but didn’t dare vanish the mess. Who would have thought there was so much blood running through the creature’s veins?

“M-my Lord, p-please!”

“Please what, Lucius? Speak up, it doesn’t suit you to be this timid. Why are you trembling anyway? Shouldn’t you be grateful that I am so generous to overlook the grave mistake that you made when siring this boy? Am I not merciful to allow you to correct it, letting your disappointment of an heir live, despite the fact that he is not deserving of such an honour?”

“No, you are r-right, my L-lord.” Lucius came forward, his face drawn into a grim frown that belied his obvious fear. Despite being a fairly good user of Occlumency, Lucius was projecting his thoughts into the room, screaming inside his mind to stop this madness. Too bad nobody would step in and do just that. The Malfoys had brought everything that happened to them on themselves, one way or another.

He pushed the Veela over so that it lay on its stomach. The wound in its left shoulder freely seeped blood, but it wasn’t the gushing flow it had been before. Maybe the boy wouldn’t survive his punishment, not that Voldemort cared much. 

As he made the first cut, the creature came alive again. It was too weak to do much, but it tried to bat Lucius’ hands away, snapping and snarling like the animal it was. It was silent for a few minutes, the pathetic grunts and moans that both Malfoys made notwithstanding, before the tune changed. 

“Father…” The boy seemed to gain consciousness again, the creature now weak enough to relinquish the control over his mind.  
“Father, please. It hurts!”  
He choked on a cry. His features were his own again, his eyes a stony grey, pupils wide with unimaginable pain.

Lucius didn’t react, didn’t even blink as he hacked through the thickest bone. It splintered with a sickening sound, eliciting a shriek from the boy, whose pleas, however, couldn’t be stopped.

“No, Father, no! Please, Father, please stop. No, stop. Please.” The boy’s voice was thick with unshed tears, his body too overwhelmed by everything to function properly.  
“ _Daddy_ , please!” He screamed when a huge part of the wing tore away.

When the last part finally came loose, the boy was reduced to a sobbing, bloody mess on the floor, still conscious, but long since incoherent in his begging. Lucius let the wing fall from his hands, looking at them in disgust, like they were dirt. He was even more soiled than Severus as he returned to his place at his Lord’s side.

“The deed is done, my Lord,” he said, his voice once again as blank as his face, his thoughts hidden behind his Occlumency.

“It is,” Voldemort nodded. He waved at Dorus to step forward again. “Dorus, do us the honours and destroy those abominable… things.” His voice dripped with contempt.

“Yes, my Lord.” He raised his wand and gave it another sharp flick. “Incendio!”

As soon as the flames reached the mutilated wings, Draco let out a piercing scream, so sharp and high-pitched that even Voldemort flinched. The creature’s eyes glowed again in their preternaturally golden colour before their fire faded, leaving behind dull, lifeless grey. Wind picked up inside the cell, ripping at their robes and extinguishing the torches on the walls.

As they were plunged into darkness, Voldemort thought he heard a faint whisper.

“What have we done?”

**Author's Note:**

> Now, as I hinted in "30 Days..." the fiance (we're slowly getting near the wedding date) didn't like what I made of the story, saying it was too cliche. I wanted (and needed) to introduce some Veela lore for the other story and also create some premise for "Learn to Fly Again". What do you think - was it too cliche?!
> 
> Buckle up, folks, because that was the bad place I wanted to take you, and now we can start to climb back into the light. I'm already working on the the next part, but with school for the next two years it's going to be tough tough tough. 
> 
> Still looking for a long-term beta reader, so if you're interested feel free to reach out for me.


End file.
